e intelligence communities can back it up.
I make it to my father’s office an hour and a half after he originally summoned me and he is pissed, for all the icy calm in his eyes. Roland is pacing the room like a scrawny chicken on speed, flapping his arms back and forth in agitation as he goes over the king’s schedule for the day.
It’s a formidable schedule from what I can hear, one that ends with a half-hour address to the public regarding what has happened to Garrett. So far, we’ve only issued statements through our PR people, with the exception of the very brief minute I spent at the podium, telling Wildemar that Garrett had been recovered.
Standing there in front of the news cameras, knowing thousands of our citizens had gathered outside the palace for what they’d feared would be an opposite announcement, the weight of the crown I wear finally caught up to me. I finally understood not just the duty and the perks that come with it, but the soul-deep responsibility to lay a path for my people to follow.
In that moment, I understood my father—understood Garrett—in a way I never have before. And while I appreciate the clarity and the purpose, I’m so glad that I’ll never have to act as Wildemar’s crown prince again.
And that’s even without having to keep up with my father’s prodigious schedule.
Knowing the old man can go all day, I clear my throat in an effort to interrupt. Roland stops mid-squawk when he catches sight of me, then bows his head in the least obsequious manner I have ever seen. Then again, that’s par for the course between the two of us.
“Your Highness.” He reaches for a folder on the desk. “Thank you so much for joining us. I have your schedule—”
I’m about to ask what schedule—after all, I have a social secretary of my own who does her best to keep me honest—and the last thing I need is Roland on my ass about not being seen enough or being too gruff with one group or another.
I may like the guy a hell of a lot, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend the rest of my days being called to task like a recalcitrant toddler. Especially now that Garrett’s back in the palace. Once he starts feeling a little better, all that shit is at his door, not mine.
“Leave us, Roland.”
My father’s voice brooks no argument, though it’s not like Roland is about to give him one anyway. In fact, the way the man runs for the door as if it’s the only thing standing between him and an eternity of hellfire and brimstone has my senses on red alert.
And when my father pulls a bottle of two-hundred-year-old scotch out of the bottom drawer of his desk—despite it being only nine in the morning—I want to run for the hills, too.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my twenty-eight years it’s that when it comes to my father, nothing good ever comes with scotch.
He pours two generous tumblers full, then slides one across the desk to me. I’m almost afraid to touch it, terrified that when I do Hell itself is going to come raining down on me.
But the king is waiting, drink in hand. Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
I hold the glass up to my father in a mini-salute, then take a long swallow to get it over with. It burns all the way down. I’m sure whatever my father is about to say will do the same thing.
I brace myself, but I’m still not ready when he says, “Garrett’s been compromised.”
“Excuse me?”
He glares at me. “You heard what I said.”
“I did. But I’m not sure what it means…”
“It means he was tortured for three months—”
“Believe me, I’m aware of that!”
“And we don’t,” he continues as if I hadn’t interrupted, “as of yet, know what classified information he’s given up. Nor do we know the extent of the brainwashing they attempted on him—”
“Wait a minute. I’ve been in every meeting with the medical community and the intelligence community before and after he was recovered and nobody said anything about brainwashing.”
The king—and at this moment he is very much THE KING—takes another swallow of his scotch. “You’ve been in every meeting I’ve allowed you to be in. It’s not the same thing.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Fear slams through me. “What’s wrong with Garrett?”
“I already told you. Garrett’s been compromised.”
“That’s about the country.” I slam my scotch down on his desk. “I want to know about my brother.”